Her Captain
by AgiVega
Summary: Post VoE one-shot. On their way to New South Wales, Emily manages to embarrass Laurence once again.


**A/N: **for those who don't know me (yet): my native language is not English. Despite the arduous work of my brilliant British beta, there might be some mistakes left. Forgive me for that.

**Disclaimer: **your characters are all yours, Miss Novik. I'm just borrowing them a bit.

**Thanks to my friend Michael for the beta!**

**Her Captain**

The screeching of seagulls in the early afternoon sunshine lulled everyone aboard the _Allegiance_ into a post-lunchtime stupor. The ship danced slowly, solemnly southwards on the waves, as though she had become just as drowsy in the pleasant warmth as everyone on her decks and below them. Even the usual clamouring of the prisoners on the gaol-deck had died away, only their snoring filtered through the grating to mingle with the louder snores of the dragons.

The only out-of-place sound on the whole ship was the gasping of a young girl leaning over the railing, getting reacquainted with her recent meal.

Emily Roland hated being sick just as much as she hated looking weak. And yet here she was, being sick and absolutely sure that if anyone should awaken and cared to glance at her, they would find her looking horribly weak, a mere shadow of herself. And she would never live it down. As the daughter of the Admiral of the Air, raised as a 'boy' from the age of seven years, she was supposed to be tough! At least, much tougher than she felt at the moment.

She chanced a fleeting glance towards the dragons – more precisely towards their slumbering captains – and heaved a sigh of relief. They had not even stirred. Not that she would have particularly minded if Granby or Tharkay saw her in her current state, but _her_ captain was a completely different matter.

Her sigh of relief turned into another gag, and she was once again forced to lean over the railing and throw up even her long-consumed breakfast. When she was sure there was nothing left in her to get reacquainted with, she slowly turned around, propping her elbows on the railing, too tired to even stand upright. And that was when her eyes met his.

He was half lying, half sitting by Temeraire's flank, the _Principia Mathematica_ slipping out of his hands – he looked the epitome of laziness, but his eyes, his startling blue eyes were wide open, staring at her with shock and concern.

Emily quickly turned away to pretend that nothing had happened, trying to straighten herself, but found that all her limbs were madly shaking and she could barely make a step without having to clutch onto something.

He must have noticed this, as he was by her side in an instant, offering her an arm to lean on. Albeit reluctantly, she took it. She had never before been armed by a man to a bench. It felt humiliating. Especially because it was him. _Her captain._

As she sank onto the bench, she found herself wondering why she was still thinking of him as her captain. He had been stripped of his rank, he was a mere prisoner on a prison ship, a traitor detested by the whole of England… and yet, for her, he was still _the captain_. The captain she looked up to, the captain she knew she could trust with her life… the captain she could not bring herself to be unfaithful to. When a couple of months ago Temeraire had requested that she rejoin them as a member of his crew, she had not hesitated for a single second. And it was not for Temeraire that she did not hesitate.

"Are you all right, Emily?" her captain asked, taking a seat next to her.

She nodded jerkily, and despite feeling herself quite terrible, she couldn't help but smile at being called by her Christian name. In their three years of acquaintance, he had always called her 'Roland' – he had only started calling her 'Emily' right before the last battle against Napoleon.

"Uh… yes, sir," she said after a while, realising that a jerky nod was anything but polite. "I am fine, thank you."

"Are you sure?" he frowned. He looked concerned, more than he was supposed to be at seeing someone at sea vomit. "You look very pale. You did not… wander about the ship, did you?"

Emily frowned back at him. "What do you mean by that… sir?"

"The gaol-deck, Emily. I know you are adventurous, but the gaol-deck is full of prisoners who have not had the chance to wash for weeks. They are sick already as expected, and it is easy to catch dysentery or…"

"Beg your pardon, sir, but I did not wander around the gaol-deck," she had hastily. "It stinks worse than dragon manure."

He laughed – a sound she had not heard from him for quite a while. Since… since before he had left for France. It was pleasant to hear him laugh, it warmed her heart a bit. For a moment even his eyes lit up with mirth, but the light was ephemeral, snuffed out in an instant – whether by his worry for her or by the fact that he suddenly remembered his current status of convicted traitor, she did not know. All she knew was that the light went out too fast, unfairly fast, as though it had known it had no right to exist.

"Then I assume sometimes even I stink worse than dragon manure," he carried on, his mouth twitching as though he could not decide whether he should be serious about it or not.

"Oh, sir, do not even mention that horrible pit they gave you to sleep in!" she said, exasperated. "If only you would have allowed me to tell Temeraire…"

"No, Emily. I should not have allowed you, and I shall not, ever. We do not want a rebellion on the ship… and let us admit, I do not deserve anything better. Thankfully I at least get to wash every day, and with soap that takes care of the stench."

"And thankfully the weather is almost always nice enough for you to be able to sleep by Temeraire's side instead of… down there," she added, her last words a mere whisper as she doubled up.

"Emily!" Her captain reached out and touched her forehead, perhaps half-expecting her to throw up again. She stiffened by his warm fingers on her skin – it was both pleasant and frightening, sending warmth and some unknown, icy chill through her veins at the same time.

"You do not have a fever," he established after a few seconds, pulling back his hand. "At least it cannot be dysentery, then. But pray tell, Emily, what happened to you? You barely ate anything at lunch, there is no way it could have upset your stomach…"

Had he been paying attention to how much she ate? – she wondered, and felt a bit overwhelmed. She never expected to get this much attention from him. It was almost flattering. Then again… the current situation was anything but flattering. Surely her mother would find it highly amusing, and if it happened to anyone else, so would she. But with _him_ of all people sitting right next to her, waiting for an answer… it _was_ horribly embarrassing.

She took a deep breath and fixed her eyes on the horizon where a bunch of tiny black lumps could easily have been the Azores. "I have started bleeding, sir."

Since no reply came, she paused for a second to glance at him, and seeing his eyes widen in confusion, she felt emboldened to continue. "You, as a man, might not know, sir, but some girls do not have any problems with it, while some suffer somewhat from the cramp, and again some have the cramp so badly they have to throw up. Damn back luck I belong to these latter, ain't it?"

By the time she finished the sentence, she found all her embarrassment had vanished – or perhaps it had not vanished, just had been transferred. To him. He was staring at her as though she had grown an additional head, his cheeks redder than the setting sun.

"Er… that is… I mean… I understand, Emily," he cleared his throat, and looked away, pretending to be interested in Captain Riley pacing near the dragondeck with a cup of steaming tea in the hand. "Will you pardon me," he said suddenly, and jumped up from the bench to hurry towards Riley.

Scowling, Emily looked after him. She could not decide whether to be mad at him for having fled an awkward discussion, or be amused that she managed to embarrass him once again. She still vividly remembered him telling her off in the Pamirs for having bathed together with the crewmen, and then she had not even realised she had embarrassed him at all. It was Dyer who explained to her why their captain had given her such odd orders afterwards. Apparently he had wanted to flee the discussion from which he had emerged defeated.

Despite her badly aching belly, Emily grinned to herself. Captain Laurence, routed by the impudence of a twelve-year-old girl! Now she was almost fourteen, and could not help but feel a bit of a victory again. She had been almost terrified of giving the 'news' to any of the men around her, especially _him_, but apparently her fears had been unfounded. It seemed hilarious but true that a man who had killed hundreds if not thousands and seen more blood than most soldiers in their whole lives, could flinch from the mere thought of a girl having her monthly.

She giggled. Men were weird. And her captain was weirder than most.

Now that she followed him with her eyes, she once again was forced to establish that he indeed was weird, because, at the moment, he was madly gesticulating at the guard stationed on the steps leading to the dragondeck. From this distance she could not understand what he was saying, but he looked upset enough when the guard swung the musket in his face, this way reminding him of his status of prisoner. Eventually Captain Riley saved the day by walking over to them, and after half a minute of listening to Laurence, he beckoned both to Laurence and the guard to follow him.

What on earth was going on here? – Emily wondered. Surely, her captain could not be so embarrassed by her little revelation that he wanted to flee the dragondeck? No, she shook her head, he probably could be called the greatest prude in whole England, but definitely not a coward.

A few minutes later he reappeared, followed by the guard who stopped on the steps. To Emily's surprise her captain was carrying a nice porcelain teacup.

She almost snorted – he might be a convicted prisoner, but he was still a nobleman, and as her mother used to say: nobles will always be snobs. Who has heard of a convicted prisoner with no weapon ready to fight a guard with a musket just to gain a cup of Earl Grey?

She half expected him to walk past her and settle back to Temeraire's side to sip at his tea, and was surprised when he lowered himself on the bench next to her again.

"Here," he offered her the steaming cup. "My mother always used to give me a cup of hot tea when my belly ached as a child. If it helps little boys with bellyaches, it might help a young woman with her… monthly problem too."

She took the cup from him, but instead of saying thanks, she just stared at the hot, dark liquid with glazed eyes. She could not believe what he had just said. "Young woman…" she whispered at last, lifting her glance from the cup to meet his eyes. "No one has called me a woman before. Some have called me a young lady… mostly you, sir, but everyone else just calls me a girl… or worse, a boy. Never a woman."

"Well," he gave her an amused look, "as far as I know, your… monthly problem is what turns a girl into a woman, is it not?"

Smiling, she nodded. "I think so. Thank you, sir." She gulped down a bit of the tea, then pressed the half-filled cup to her belly – the warmth eased the pain.

"It was nothing," he shook his head.

"Oh, but yes, it definitely was something," she said, annoyed. "That idiot guard could have shot you if Captain Riley had not been so kind and intervene… Oh, sir… did you tell Captain Riley _why_ you needed this cup of tea?"

He gave her a curious glance, and she felt herself blush a bit. "I just… I should not want everyone knowing of… you know. It is just enough for me that _you_ caught me…" She took another sip, and continued talking to her cup instead of to him, "you seem to always catch me in my most awkward moments, sir."

"You mean, like bathing at the ferals' cave?" His eyebrow shot up on his forehead, almost disappearing behind the stray locks of blond hair falling into his face.

"No, not exactly," she chuckled, "though that was awkward too… only for you, not for me, sir."

"True," he nodded, his cheeks colouring a bit again.

"I was… I was talking about other awkward things, sir," she sipped at her tea. "Like… when you caught me crying in the covert grounds before the battle of Dover. You were just as kind to me then as you were now. And I felt just as embarrassed then as I do now."

"Not more embarrassed than I feel, I can assure you," he replied with a half-smile. "Besides, I must admit I was almost happy to have caught you crying."

Emily's eyes widened. "Why, sir?"

He shook his head with an amused smile. "Before that… I had been thoroughly confused about how to treat you. I had never had a female on my crew before… and you seemed so tough, as though you were… well, a boy. For weeks I could not decide whether you were a boy born into a girl's body, or a girl who was pretending to be a boy, but who was, deep down, a girl still. And that night I got my answer."

"What kind of answer?" Temeraire murmured, still half asleep.

"Oh, go back to sleep, and don't poke your nose into other's business," Iskierka murmured back, without even opening her eyes.

"The pot calling the kettle black," yawned Temeraire.

"Black? What black, the only black thing around is you," retorted Iskierka.

"Oh, go back to sleep, both of you!" Granby sighed.

Emily caught herself grinning, and her eyes met her captain's. He could barely hide his mirth again.

"I doubt if these two will ever agree on something," she whispered, as the dragons and Granby continued their siesta. "Especially the egg."

"Do no even mention it," he rolled his eyes. "Temeraire gets edgy every time he hears the 'e' word. And she does keep mentioning it every day."

"Twice a day. Or three times."

"Or more."

She caught herself chuckling together with him, his earlier reserve all but disappeared. But just for a moment. Probably realising he had afforded himself more than he should have, he straightened his features. "I would not mind if they did have an egg, after all," he said, "and the sooner the better, so that Granby could return to the Corps."

Emily nodded. "I am just hoping they shall wait with that until we set foot in New South Wales. From an act of such magnitude even the _Allegiance_ might keel over."

He made a noise that sounded like a mixture of a cough and a snort, and she was sure even before glancing at him that she would find him flushed again. And she was right.

"Just think of it, sir, if they indeed had an egg, that would mean you and Captain Granby would be like… grandfathers! Wouldn't that be great?"

A sharp intake of breath signalled that he did not think it such a great idea.

"…then again, neither of you is old enough to be a grandfather, now that I think it over," she added hastily.

"I almost am," he replied dryly, "but I doubt if I shall ever stand a chance to even call myself a father, let alone a grandfather."

His eyes were distant, fixed on the horizon, as though searching something behind it – perhaps a dream lost. She wished she could put aside the fact that she was still his subordinate and he twenty years her senior, and hug him. Just plainly hug him. He looked like someone who badly needed a hug. The lost dream that only his eyes could see on the horizon must have been of family. Probably he had once loved someone, and not in the purely physical way he had 'loved' her mother, but with all his being, his heart and soul. He looked like someone who had loved and lost. And there was no going back for him – not to the woman who had stolen his heart, not even to the woman who had given birth to him – for him there was no going back to anyone.

Part of him would always remain in England, in the charming country house of Wollaton Hall, in the coverts of Loch Laggan and Dover, even on the streets of the tiny villages where they had killed so many of the French irregulars.

Just looking at him, she ached all over, the cramps in her belly dwarfed by the ache in her heart. She felt like crying, but blinked back the tears. He need not know how she pitied him, just as he need not know how she admired him. Pity and admiration – pretty much opposites of each other, and yet he, her captain, made her feel both.

For a moment she wondered what her mother would say if she honestly told her about her feelings for her captain. Would she call it a silly, childish crush?

"You are not at all old, sir," she blurted out. "You have plenty of time to start a family."

He gave her a dubious glance that carried the message _'time is not my prior concern, it is the person, after all, who would stoop so low as to marry a convicted traitor?'_

Yes, her mother would surely call it a childish crush. But Emily knew better. She knew if he only could wait a few years for her to grow up, she could try give him back at least part of what he had lost.

"Back to your earlier question," he carried on, once again forcing his face to look as impassive as possible, "I did not tell Captain Riley of your predicament. At least, not completely. I merely told him my ensign had bellyaches and needed a cup of hot tea. A gentleman need not talk more than necessary."

"How very true, Laurence," Temeraire opened an eye. "As I am a gentleman, or a gentle dragon, I did not talk when I deemed it unnecessary. But now I feel the need to ask, Emily, what exactly does it mean you are now a woman?"

Emily felt all the blood rush into her cheeks, and glancing at her captain, she saw that he looked equally taken aback.

"It means she is now ready to have an egg if she so chooses," Iskierka lectured him, her eyes still closed.

"Oh, indeed?" Temeraire opened his other eye, lifting his head to look down at them with an enthusiastic expression.

"Yes, but she does not choose to have one for many years to come," her captain replied, even though each word he uttered seemed a torture to him.

"Exactly," Emily nodded quickly. "Not for many years to come."

"How many?" Temeraire inquired. "Four? Five? Six?"

_I should say seven,_ she thought. She needed seven years to become an adult legally, and after that, not even her mother could tell her what to do with her private life. She needed seven years to grow into the woman that her captain had so gallantly named her today – to make him truly _see_ her as a woman. And once that happened, she knew she would not care if others thought she 'stooped low' to seek out the company of a traitor, for that traitor was her captain. And she loved him.

**FIN**

**A/N:** I'm giving thoughts to writing a longer Laurence/Emily fic, taking place six-seven years after this one. I'm not sure yet. The Temeraire fandom is so ridiculously small (I honestly don't understand why!) that I'm not sure I would have much of an audience. And let's admit we fanfic writers love big audiences. ;) So I might write it, and I might not. Until I decide, be so kind and leave a review for this one. :)


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